


In the Clearing Stands a Boxer

by coriander



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriander/pseuds/coriander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. “I’m sorry, Loki of Manhattan. But the law is the law. And, if I may say, regardless of my welcome... I believe that you are deeply in need of some compassion.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Clearing Stands a Boxer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strange AU, kind of completely out of left field, especially for my first AO3 fic. Derp. Meet Loki Laufeyson: degenerate living off his skill for pickpocketing and not-so-glorious night job as a Disney ice dancer - that is, until he attempts to kill his coworkers. Enter Thor Odinson: a modern Shakespeare incarnate, and his court-appointed therapist. Heartwarming (?) hilarity ensues. In case you couldn't tell from the title, this is also heavily inspired by _The Boxer_ by Simon and Garfunkel. 
> 
> For Emily, the Tony to my Steve, the Arthur to my Alfred, the Loki to my Thor and the best RP buddy I could ask for. Happy belated birthday!
> 
> Special thanks to Jessi for beta'ing and to Ray, my New York City!beta. You guys are the best. <3

*

 

“Laufeyson, suit up!”

Loki glared at the manager through the eyeslits on his costume. “With all due respect, sir, this is my suit.”

“Don’t give me your sass.” The manager took him by the shoulders and adjusted the grotesque lion suit, straightening the collar and the tail. “You’re supposed to be Scar, Laufeyson, not Zazu’s misanthropic nephew. You understand?”

  “No,” Loki snarked, but his reply was muffled by the lion muzzle, and the manager - probably for his benefit - took it as an affirmative, and turned on his heel without another word.

Loki sighed, pulled off his skate covers, and joined Mufasa behind the curtain. The man glared at him - at least he assumed it was a glare, he couldn’t tell behind the lion mask but he could feel it; but before he had the chance to say anything the lights dimmed, and the manager glided out to the center of the ice.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls!” His voice boomed, the warm multicolored lights scattered around him in a kaleidoscope, “Welcome to Jotunheim Theatre, and our world-famous production Lion King on Ice!”

“In the event of an emergency walk, do not run, to the nearest exit,” Loki mimicked along with him, silently wishing that there were a fire and then everyone would just die.

“Shove it, Laufeyson,” was Mufasa’s input, which really only increased the murderous intent.

It was a good thing he so strongly disliked him. It made the stampede scene very, very easy.

 

*

 

The other Jotunheim skaters had never liked Loki Laufeyson. They thought he was a delinquent, a heroin addict, condescending and above all, a right bastard. Loki never denied any of it, and silently returned the sentiment with all the ferocity they suspected.

Word was that the manager at Jotunheim Theatre Company only kept Loki around because he was such a gifted skater, and one of the moronic higher-ups with mixed up priorities had decided that his talent trumped his misanthropy. The other skaters would beg to differ, but no one would dispute that Loki made an excellent villain. They just maintained that one day Laufeyson would snap, and murder them all with his skate blades. Loki didn’t deny that either.

It happened one evening performance. Loki had been two months clean, but had broken that morning and came in with circles under his eyes. His landlord was harassing him; he was three weeks late on his rent. There had been a shooting outside his apartment that afternoon, probably gang violence, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d stepped over a young boy’s body on his way out the door.

New York City was forbiddingly cold in winter, but he welcomed the chill at his gloveless fingertips. For some reason, the cold gave him strength.

He staggered in the back door of the theatre cold, eyes dilated, falling over his dresser. His peers only rolled their eyes. He swore he heard Simba give a snide remark along the lines of hey, Mufasa, maybe tonight’s the night Laufeyson actually kills you.

Oh, if only he knew.

 

*

 

He didn’t remember what led up to it, nor did he remember slicing Mufasa across the throat with a quick kick of his skate - at least, that’s what he told his public defender. To be fair, the former was true.

The latter he remembered in excruciatingly beautiful detail. The way the thin fabric suit tore open, sunny lion-fur pelt strewn across the ice; how the tear had exposed a shady patch of skin, the tender flesh of his throat, and how inviting it had been; he’d kicked again, slicing again, and the blood had been glorious, spilling out into his mane and onto the ice, dying it like stained glass. Oh, he remembered. He ran his tongue along his lower lip. He would savor that memory.

The insanity in his eyes was probably what convinced the judge. Despite the prosecution pushing for attempted third-degree murder, he was deemed unfit to stand trial. The police raided his apartment and took everything - his experiments, his pet lice, his heroin stash. The public defender had looked on with folded arms and a stoic resting face curved into a frown, his worn brown eyes staring straightforward as if to broadcast, really, another one? Or perhaps, I need a vacation.

He was given anti-depressants and a mandatory therapist assignment. “That’s it?” he couldn’t help but ask the court appointed lawyer, and it was all he could do not to smirk.

The man looked tired. “No,” he admitted, with a long-suffering sigh. He shuffled his papers and stuffed them, still out of order, into his dog-eared messenger bag. “You’re being assigned a court-appointed guardian, trained in psychotherapy and mentorship- ah, brotherhood, they call it. It’s progressive.”

His eyes said he didn’t believe it. So expressive, his weary mud-brown eyes. Loki wondered what it would be to microwave them in vegetable oil.

“You’re lucky, kid. Asgard Psych is the best of the best.” He handed Loki a slip of paper that he slipped into his pocket without looking at. “Your assigned brother should be in touch with you in the next week.”

Loki had no intention of going to the therapy or taking the medications, much less communicating with the name behind the text on the card. So sue him. Or whatever they did to convicted felons with documented insanity. He’d leave the city if he had to.

Or the world. What did he have to lose?

  That was his thought process one week later, as he lay on his back with his feet out over the end of the sofa, twirling a razor blade round his thumb ... and a heavy knock beat against the door.

 

*

 

“Greetings!” exalted the Octavius look-alike in red.

“Hey,” said Loki.

“I have come to be your brother and guide you on the path towards inner peace and solitude,” the Roman Confucius went on.

“Cool,” said Loki.

The sunny face looked at him like it expected something. His eyes fell, at a loss, then brightened again with renewed intensity. “Shall we go out for coffee?”  “No.” And shut the door.

Or at least he thought he did. The oversized gladiator had stuck his foot in the way, and poked his obnoxious head through the crack. “Wait!”

“I’m still here,” Loki deadpanned.

“I am ordered to fetch you by the court. But fear not! Our time together will be a glorious one. And there will be coffee!”

“I hate coffee.”

“Tea!”

Loki threw the door back open. “What part of ‘go away and leave me alone’ do you not understand?”

The man looked like a confused puppy. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. By order of the esteemed court of the United States of--”

“I don’t care about your court and I don’t want your help!”

The Roman warrior sighed. He fiddled with the strings on his crimson sweatshirt, his eyes downcast, his large feet shuffled awkwardly. Then he looked up, his eyes lonely and pleading, “...Tazo Tea?”

He wasn’t sure why he went with him. Most likely to avoid the ill will of the law. Although he had to hand it to them; prison may have been a better alternative to five minutes of this man.

He didn’t introduce himself until they escaped the bitter cold wind for the Starbucks on the corner of 7th Avenue and the ice had thawed from his lips. “Oh, how silly of me! I’m Thor, of Asgard Psychiatry.” He extended a hand, warm and covered with dark mittens that looked hand-made. Some woman must love that man, Loki thought. How predictable.

“Loki. Of Manhattan,” he clarified drily.

“A pleasure, Loki of Manhattan!” he let his hand drop when it was clear it wouldn’t be shaken in turn, but he didn’t seem phased at all. “Now, I promised you a Tazo Tea, did I not?”   “Tall iced black.” Loki averted his eyes to the menu. “Please.”

Thor said nothing about his choice of a cold drink for a colder day, only gave it a wince when he reached for it with one still-gloved hand and took his steaming caramel latte in the other. They sat at a table in the back corner on the second floor, where they could see the first snow of winter out the window and tourists bundled up to their ears boarding a charter bus for Washington.

“Going south,” Loki said round the lid of his cup. “Escaping. How...” Human, he wanted to say, though he wasn’t sure he’d said any of it out loud anyways, and Thor said nothing in response.

The giant of a man was quiet; he was seeming to be waging a personal battle with the temperature of his latte, which may have burnt his tongue. He sucked silently on his straw, drowning his burn in plastic, jamming it through the hole in the cup absolutely not meant for straws and quiet again for another moment before he finally spoke.

“So... Loki. Loki of Manhattan. A pleasure.” He took an overly calm sip of whipped cream off the top. “Tell me about yourself.”

Loki graced him with a glare the color of his tea.

“...Well.” He folded his hands, “My name is Thor Odinson, and as you know, I hail from Asgard Psychiatry. I originally hail from Oslo, Norway, but I came here as an adolescent to learn the ways of discipline. I was as you are, once.”

Loki snorted. His tea bubbled.

“You believe me not? I shall convince you! Through friendship, care and kindness, Asgard healed me of the anger that burned in my heart. I shall do the same for you.”

Loki breathed a long-suffering sigh, rested his head on his hands and glared up across the table. “Do tell me, Mr. Shakespeare-”

“Shakespeare? I love Shakespeare! His eternal works are among my-”

“What makes you think I’ll let you do anything?”

Thor frowned a strange sort of teddy bear frown; he looked confused. “As I said. Through friendship and compassion, the pinnacles of brotherhood-”

“No.” Loki’s fist clenched around his cup. “I have no need for such things. I’m sorry, Mr. Odinson, you seem like a kind man. But your ‘compassion,’” he held air-quotes for emphasis, “Is unwelcome here.”

Thor leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes wide and blue, goddamn him and his unshakeable sincerity. “I’m sorry, Loki of Manhattan. But the law is the law. And, if I may say, regardless of my welcome... I believe that you are deeply in need of some compassion.”

Loki didn’t leave. He sat the rest of the afternoon, an eternity, in silence, sipping from his cup until it was empty and then sipping some more. Thor finished his latte in a few burning gulps and looked sideways at him, expectant, but Loki was determined to give him nothing. He didn’t have time for the likes of him, a puppy trapped in the body of a man, and one that needed to learn his boundaries.

“So...” Thor grasped at air, first figuratively then literally, his hand making some sort of clawing gesture. “You’re... a performer?”  “I don’t know why you bother asking about my life if the court already told you everything,” Loki snapped back, staring down into his empty tea. “You probably know everything from my favorite food to my shoe size.” He bit the edge of his cup, jagged and chewed round the edge.

Thor just looked at him thoughtfully, infuriatingly unfazed. “Would those things be particularly obtrusive? There’s not much I could do with your shoe size... although if you tell me your favorite food, I will be happy to venture in search of it with you.”

He smiled, damn that smile. What was he, a cartoon character?

“I’m an ice dancer.” He tore off the rim of the cup, speaking through his teeth. “It requires significantly more skill.”

“I saw Lion King on Ice once, upon my arrival in New York. It was truly astonishing.” His brow furrowed at the way Loki’s jaw clenched. “I mean that honestly. The myriad of creative colors and animals was nothing short of amazing. But of course that’s just your night job, correct?”

Loki didn’t realize how tight he was gripping his empty cup until he slammed it on the table. “If you’re so bent on insulting me,” he hissed, his hand shaking, “I don’t know why... why you would...” he stood abruptly, “Forget it. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Odinson. Have a nice day.”

He turned on his heel and left, leaving his jagged cup on the table and his scarf draped over the back of the chair. He didn’t notice it gone until he stepped outside and the cold crawled up his neck, but his pride wouldn’t let him go back.

 

*

 

He wasn’t sure how Thor convinced him to meet again. Maybe the court order. Probably the scarf.

Loki took it wordlessly when they met on the corner of 81st Street outside Central Park, where the only heat was that which escaped from under the door of the Pret a Manger. He covered his chapped lips and mumbled something that might have been thank you into the fabric, but it probably wasn’t and wasn’t relevant regardless. God only knew this man’s ego didn’t need a boost.

“So I was thinking we could go into the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Thor announced into his own crimson scarf. Contrary to Loki’s, his seemed to have an amplifying rather than muffling effect. “There is an exhibit on old Norse artwork, which must admit I’m quite fond of, and you seem like one for the finer crafts.”

Loki just stuffed his hands tighter into his deep black pockets. He didn’t respond for a moment, contemplating whether one was necessary at all; and by the time he did, it was probably past the point of relevance but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “To be honest...” his hand toyed with the loose yarn round the edges of the fingers of his gloves, “I wouldn’t think you one for art.”

Thor released a hearty laugh. “That is what my girlfriend said! I assure you, however, I am more cultured than I appear.”

  Loki looked at him sideways. “Girlfriend?”

“Ah, yes, my fair Jane.” Thor’s eyes warmed and for a moment he was looking at something beyond Loki, past him, across the city. “Although she is more of a scientist than an artist, she does have a taste for the finer arts.” He looked back at Loki, the fondness still lingering in his eyes. “Jane is the one who took my hand and gave me reason to change. I hope to do the same for you.”  

Loki recoiled. Positive feelings made him melt like the witch under water. “Are you calling me your girlfriend?”

“No, no!” Thor gave a bellowing laughter, his eyes still warm and light as ever. “But I am here to be your voice of positivity and redemption should you allow it!” 

Was he for real? Loki still couldn’t help the feeling that he’d walked straight out of an annoying sitcom advert, or maybe a comic book. As it were he had no idea how to respond to him, so he settled into a resting frown and followed him up the steps to the museum.

Thor lead him to the exhibition hall, which displayed a temporary arrangement of medieval plates for armored horses and headgear on loan from Europe. Loki made sure to look bored, his arms folded tight across his chest and hands criss-crossed into his pockets, but he couldn’t help but look at the polished metal and elaborate designs. Thor caught him looking at one such piece, a golden helmet with horns arching from the front, towering over its counterparts.

“You have good taste, my friend,” he said over his shoulder, moving so that the golden tips gleamed in the limelight. “I believe that is a parade helmet, likely of... yes, Italian origin.” He read off the placard, “Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Parma and Piacenza. Elegant title, is it not?”

Loki simply nodded, his eyes transfixed by the sharp, rolling curves of the helmet’s side, their focal point at the center, the regal glow of the ancient metal. “Fit for a king,” he murmured.

“And that it is! I believe such designs were also in use in Norway, in the time of my ancestors.” Thor began to walk, and Loki reluctantly met his stride. “Fit for a king, you say, but this type of helmet was also that of the Norse god of mischief.”

“Then,” Loki paused, hands fiddling with the cotton of his gloves before looking sideways at Thor, “The Norse god of mischief had good taste.”

“Good taste!” Thor laughed heartily into the edges of his scarf. “Legend has it he did some terrible things. Nearly brought about the end of humanity.”

“Maybe he had reason,” Loki said coldly. He directed his eyes away from Thor and fixed them on his excuse, an elaborate breast plate for a horse in sixteenth century Turkey. “Legend also has it that his brother, the god of thunder, was... ah, forgive my language, a great bag of dicks.”

“Then you don’t know your legends.” Thor stopped walking and turned to face him. Loki stopped too, his feet squared, defensive, but did not back down.

“I know my legends as well as you. Maybe better. Probably better.” He subconsciously flicked his hair over his shoulder. “Do not underestimate me, Thor Odinson. The fickle titles given by some psychiatric institution do not make you superior to me.”

“Is that what you think? That this is some game of titles?” Thor’s hackles rose, his blue eyes alight in a way that gave Loki an odd sort of _thrill_ , that he’d finally managed to get a rise out of him. “I am trying to help you, Loki! Why can you not see that?”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to be helped!” Loki snapped back. “Despite your admiration for them, you’re no god, Thor. You’re not even a doctor. You’re just another crackpot on a stick.”

“And you dance in costume for a living. On ice.” Thor’s face hardened, “It’s no wonder you have so little sense of humanity.”  

Loki’s lip curled upwards into a snarl. “I’m done here.” He swept his scarf over his shoulder as he turned on his heel.

“Loki, wait!” the brother’s voice relaxed back into its normal tone, the facade of cheeriness, “But we haven’t seen most of the horses!” Loki continued ahead with steely determination. “I am deeply sorry! Wait!”

Loki sighed loudly through his nose as he heard the clumsy bootsteps running down the steps behind him. He whirled to face him on the sidewalk, coming closer than he’d like to slamming heads, and stood on the edge of his toes to stare fiercely into his eyes.

 “I’m not your _plaything_ ,” he breathed, “And I refuse to be just another name on your list, a trophy for your table, an item to be manipulated and distorted as you please. Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Reforming me?”

“ _Helping_ you.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” Loki all but spat in his face. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”  

“I don’t want to fight you-”

“Oh, but you do. You look like a _fighter_.” Loki’s eyes glinted in a sudden mad craze, “Go on. Take a swing.”

Thor stood firmly. “No.”

Loki crawled up close to him, his breath freezing at his lips. “Have you never fought in the lunch room, Thor? Beaten a kid for his lunch money? I’ll bet you have. You seem like the type.”  

He met his eyes coldly. “Once. But I’ve changed.”

“Oh but you have. You know what it is to wound. To hurt. To suffer. To _make others suffer_.” Loki circled him like an animal, his knees bent as though ready to pounce. “Surely then you can’t criticize me, for being what I am-”

“I’ve _changed!_ ”

“Have you, though?” He stopped and leaned off his heels, hissing between barred teeth. “Words harm all the same. And what you’re doing is _manipulation_ , not just of me but of yourself, and probably of your darling girlfriend-”

  “That is enough!”  

“I’ll speak my piece, as much as I like.” Loki stood down, smirking broadly. “Unless you do want to hit me.”

Thor seethed, his fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms; but he was unswayed. “No. I’ve learned that violence is not an answer. Besides, you and I are not evenly matched-”

Loki swung first, a fist aimed straight at his nose, and Thor only barely managed to dodge in his surprise. His first three reactions were his arms crossed then at his ear in defense and then he couldn’t contain himself anymore, and didn’t Loki love to see a fighter with instinct. Thor parried his strike and jammed his elbow in his stomach, sending him stumbling back doubled over.

He coughed weakly as Thor grabbed him by the collar, his lip tugged upwards in half a smirk. “I was right about you.”

Thor shoved him away in disgust. “You don’t understand how wrong you are.”

  “Then fight me. For real, and for honest. Unless you’re _afraid._ ”

Thor scowled. “We’re in public.” He was right; they were already attracting attention, in the form of confused looks and open cell phone cameras on the opposite side of the street.  

The younger man shrugged with infuriating casualness. “There’s a boxing ring down the block.”

“Like I said, we are ill matched-”

“Are we? You do underestimate me.” Loki brushed off his coat with poorly concealed vanity. “Besides, admit it, you’d love to take a swing at me.”

 

*

 

“Well,” Thor breathed, standing across from him, fists poised in his rented boxing gloves, “This is one way to get to know each other.”

Loki licked his lips. “You have no idea.”

He really didn’t have any idea. Loki easily sidestepped as he came at him aggressively, and parried with finesse he hadn’t bothered show him out on the streets of Manhattan. Fighting style told him more than he knew. Another careless blow relying on pure strength - arrogance. It took him a moment to recover - used to getting his way. He only got sloppier as he continued to lose ground - frustration.

But he was also persistent, he had to give him that. And just when he thought he was down, he reminded him that he certainly wasn’t out.

“I did underestimate you,” Thor said between breaths, between punches, mid uppercut.

Loki blocked it as his own hand smashed into Thor’s defenses. “And I you,” he admitted, nearly thrown off his feet by a blow to his chest.

Thor squared and hovered on the balls of his feet, breathing hard. “Where did you learn to box?”

  “On the streets. Survival.” Loki aimed a barrage of punches as his shoulders, none of which landed. “And yourself?”  

“Boarding school, physical education,” he panted in short breaths, ducking and swiping all in one fluid motion. Loki could tell. His moves looked taught, albeit well-taught, and well-mastered. Loki had learned out of necessity, by immersion.

Their mutual anger dissipated into something of a rhythm as they went at it, landing a few shots necessary for each of their egos in the forty-five minutes they sparred. Left, right, zig, zag; their motion seemed to fit one another, and after awhile it became less of an angry brawl than what it was supposed to be: sport. An outlet. And something of an artistic one, if Loki were feeling generous. From what he gathered, they were each equally surprised that the other was their equal; for his part, he’d thought himself able to take Thor by surprise, but his father had always said he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was.

They called it a draw after several rounds, each sticky with sweat and dripping blood, sore with punches, but with more than just moisture in the air. Loki accepted the proffered towel and let it hang over his bare shoulders and if he’d known what to call it, he might have said camaraderie.

“We must do this again sometime,” said Thor, breathless around the rim of his water bottle.

And Loki, for reasons unknown, for the first time in their brief acquaintance and possibly in his entire life, agreed.

 

*

 

He wasn’t sure how, but it became routine. Tuesday afternoons at Midgard Boxing, broken rented gloves and open-toed sneakers, a barrage of punches that neither ever one but that served as a good distraction all around. Or at least Loki hoped so, because he knew it was for him; without a job, he was two months behind on his rent and conversely, seeking out more and more self-medication, fighting off his dealers and his landlords and the lawyers and gods only knew what else. Boxing with Thor became something of an oasis. A catharsis. A reprieve.

They were evenly matched, time after time. Thor did win more often than not, but Loki took his fair share. He started to lose more as Thor unleashed his full strength and skill, but he prided himself on still holding his own. And for Thor’s part, he began to treat him as an equal; and that was more than he could ever ask for.

They chatted sometimes as they went at it. About Thor, his girlfriend, his nights out on the town. About Loki, his toaster, his nights talking to magpies in the window. Thor probably thought he was making progress with him, but Loki knew that wasn’t the case; he was just using the court-given punching bag as, literally, a punching bag. And it offered some temporary solace.

The last Tuesday in February was a little nippy, but the cold lacked its usual bite as though grasping at the cusp of March. The afternoon found Thor waiting on the steps outside the boxing ring as always, bundled in his crimson scarf and fluffy gray marshmallow coat, at ease in his reading and framed by the budding flowers. Two Starbucks cups sat beside him; one, a steaming caramel latte condensing at the rim, the other an iced black tazo tea. Loki wordlessly relieved him of the latter and sat next to him, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Shakespeare,” he observed without looking at him. “I never took you for a literary enthusiast.”

Thor smiled fondly and folded the paperback into his jacket pocket. “There are many things you don’t take me for. Though I told you once I was a fan of Shakespeare’s works.”

“Probably wasn’t listening.” Loki played idly with the rocks and dust at his feet. “Was that MacBeth?”

“Indeed. One of the few I haven’t read.” Thor also made no move to stand, seeming perfectly content stretched out over the stairs in the cold. “I’ve acted in a number before, though.”

“Oh?” Loki quirked an eyebrow and looked to him with interest. “Figures, since you speak like one of his characters.”

Thor smirked. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Hamlet.” Loki picked up a stick and began to trace invisible patterns in the stone, turning it in and out between the pads of his fingers. “I played that in an ice production.”  

Thor looked amused. “You played Hamlet?”

  “Hamlet himself? Goodness no. I... as you can see, I don’t quite fit the profile.” He chuckled dryly. “I was King Claudius, of course.”

“Fitting, as I played Hamlet in my schoolboy days. To think, we played opposing characters!”

“Ironic indeed,” Loki mused. “Have you played any other Shakespeare roles?”

“Many.” Thor rattled them off, “Caesar, Edgar, Henry V... I even played Romeo, once.”  

“Of course you did.” The stick snapped between Loki’s fingers; he flicked it away. “I myself played Brutus, Edmund, Richard III, and filled in as Caliban one night.”

Thor smiled, clearly in good humor. “Caliban? You’re not serious.”

  “Unfortunately.”

 “Well.” The smile still lit his lips, “I must say, I’m sure you did the them justice. The villainous roles suit you well.”

Loki’s expression darkened. Thor’s brow furrowed, “Loki?”

He was silent. His fingers curled tight around the empty cup in his hand; one nail punctured the styrofoam. Thor said his name again, but he shut his eyes to the world.

Thor stood slowly, eyeing him in puzzlement. “Shall we... shall we go box?”

He opened his eyes and glared icily at the ground, but looked up at Thor with nothing more than thinly veiled sorrow. “No. I actually- ...I can’t today. Sorry.”

He jolted to his feet and stalked off to the wind without another word, leaving Thor to pick up the cups.

 

*

 

Thor seemed surprised when the familiar slumped figure in black turned the corner next week, but he couldn’t be more surprised than Loki himself. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that their sessions meant nothing to him and it irked him, enough to want to punch something - and how convenient, there was Thor, fresh and ripe for the punching.

The boxing ring smelled of sweat and must, his bare feet scraped at the dusty floor, and yet the feeling of the cold tile beneath his toes was something he hadn’t even realized was familiar until he sank into his attacker’s crouch. Unlike most week, the two hadn’t spoken a word since their arrival, only an exchange of mutual glances as they walked in and pulled their gloves on. But Loki didn’t care. He just wanted to hit.

Thor wasn’t like Mufasa; he wasn’t an easy target, nor was he easy to pin. He moved and blocked swiftly as always, surprisingly light on his feet to back up his strength. Loki was usually faster, Thor usually stronger, but today they were balanced as ever, and within a few minutes had each fallen tensely back onto their toes.

“I know now why you were angry,” Thor said slowly as he circled him, looking for an opening in his defense.

Loki sneered and feinted left, only to make no move. “Do you? Enlighten me.”

“I thought long and hard on it. It was Jane and my old friend Sif who helped me see-”

Loki aimed an uppercut straight at his jaw, only to be rebuffed and sent skidding back on his heels. “Broadcasting me to the world now, are you?” he regained his balance and snarled through grit teeth. “Like a plaything, am I? To be showcased for the world?”

  “No, hear me out.” Thor was already breathless, his eyes hard. “I realized- and should have realized sooner- that it is unfair to peg you as the villain, and that you resent it.” He dodged another punch, but didn’t strike back. “All your life you must have been put in that position, to the point where it became subconscious- am I wrong? And I’m deeply sorry, for falling into the same delusion. It will not happen again.”

Loki just stopped, his arms lax, and stared at him. His brows knit at unknit, and it was only then he realized he hadn’t known why he was angry, and was only angrier when he realized he was right.

He lunged at him in a sudden feral movement, his hands a flurry of fists as he hit recklessly at Thor’s arms. Thor did nothing to take advantage of the openings he opened with his his uncharacteristic carelessness, only beat him back again to a standstill.  

“Why?” Loki demanded with tears in his voice, raised to its highest pitch. “Am I some sort of puzzle for you? A game? Why do you _care?_ ”

Thor’s fists clenched tight in his gloves, his entire being set in equal and opposite conviction. “Because I’m your brother.”

“You are _not my brother!_ ” Loki leapt at him again, this time catching him upside the ear and sending him spinning sideways into the ropes. “You never have been! You’re just- just some crony of the court. And I don’t know what you want, but you’re not getting it from me!”

“Loki please, do not be angry!” Thor held up his hands, palms out in a surrender. “Let us sort this out outside the ring. Perhaps we can get coffee, go back to my house, to your house- we’ve never been together to either, you could meet Jane-”

“ _No!_ ”

And suddenly Loki was punching harder than he’d ever punched, moving faster than he’d ever moved, swift and fierce and so full of pure _fury_. Caught off guard, it was all Thor could do to shield his face as Loki landed cut after cut on his chest, stomach, shoulders, and eventually knocked him straight in the nose. He tumbled back into the ropes and crumpled to the ground, his eyes hazy, blood already streaming from his nostrils.

Loki looked to the man behind the check-in counter, stunned and clinging to his pen chain; then back to Thor, dazed and bloody-faced. Then without second thought, he turned and ran.

 

*

 

He noticed instantly that he was being followed, but in the same instant chalked it up to his crushing _terror anxiety fear anger pain_. He wasn’t until he staggered up the rickety old stairs to his apartment, shoved his key into the lock, pushed it open and tried to slam it shut that he realized something was wrong.

The door didn’t close.

He looked down: a thick black boot jammed into the doorway.

The door bounced back open slowly to reveal Thor, still bloodied and haggard, looking at him with the expression of an overgrown kicked puppy.

Loki was having none of it. “You- you _stalker!_ ” He tried to shut the door again, slamming it into Thor’s boot. “I could- could have you arrested for this. You’ve no right to- ...get out, before I call the police!”

Thor just looked at him sullenly through the crack in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

  “No!” Loki pushed the door against him.

Thor made no effort to push back, but his foot was firmly lodged, his head poked around the side. “Please?”

Loki gave a final push, then a dramatic sigh as he pivoted on his heel and let the door swing open. He stalked off to the kitchen and did his best to ignore Thor as he slid inside and kicked his boots off, unsuccessfully; the golden retriever of a man simply followed him into the kitchen, misplaced hands awkwardly crunched into his pockets.

Loki leveled him with a tired glare. “You’ve followed me home, is that not enough?”

  Thor shook his head. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You’ve done enough of that today,” Loki seethed. He turned away, but Thor reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

“Then perhaps you ought to try listening.”

Loki whipped around back to him with green fire in his eyes. “How dare you. How _dare_ you.” He jerked away and sank to the balls of his feet, almost in a boxer’s crouch. “I asked nothing from you, only to live my life without interference. Alone. But you and your court and those incompetent skaters and everyone, everyone on these godforsaken streets, all they seem to want is a piece of me. Why? Can’t you just leave me be?”

“No. I-”  

“Of course not. Because you’re my brother.” Loki spat the word, as if it were poisonous to him. “Guess what, Thor, life isn’t a boy scout troop! You’ve no right to put artificial familial associations on court-ordered bondage any more than to tell me how to live.” He looked away, hands clenching the countertop. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

Thor never wavered. “So tell me.”

“You. Wouldn’t. Know!” Loki exploded, the wood splintering at his fingertips. “Why do you think I _skate_ , the profession which you look upon with such _disdain_? My father, he forced me. Forced me for years. And when he kicked me out, my foster parents exploited it. _Parents,_ ” again his mouth twitched into a snarl around the word, “They called themselves that, and it taught me to doubt the meaning of the word. So I ran. I learned how to trick. How to steal. How to skate in a fucking lion suit.” He heaved huge breaths, to the point he wasn’t certain if he were seething or crying. “And how to be the villain. I’m good at it, aren’t I? Because I am. I’m the monster you’ll warn your kids at night. Attempted murderer. Liar. _Trickster._ Of course I’m good at it. I...” He trailed off, lost, blinking back something he didn’t understand in his eyes.

Thor just looked at him gently, infuriatingly _gently_. “I understand more than you know,” he said quietly. He looked around the kitchen, at the low leaky ceiling, the barren cabinets, then back at Loki, and seemed to almost think before speaking. “Loki, you cannot live like this. I would like to help you address your concerns, but it pains me to see you in such a situation. Perhaps you could come live with me and Jane for a-”

“Did you not hear a _word_ I just said?” Loki cut him off, “I don’t want you. I don’t need you.”

Thor didn’t look angry or frustrated, or even confused. He just looked sad. “I don’t think you understand.”

“No, _you_ don’t understand. Now get _out_ ,” he hissed, “Before I call the police.”

Thor stayed put, but he did move to pull a scrunched napkin and a pen from his pocket. “At least keep this.” He scribbled into the old paper, then slid it across the counter. “My address. I live in Chelsea, by the 7th Street station. Come visit me.” He looked him in the eye, “Please.”

Loki took a long, shuddering breath. “Get. Out.”

And Thor left, willingly and without another word.

 

*

 

Three weeks later found an eviction notice nailed to Loki’s door, highlighter yellow and smack in the center. He wasn’t sure what else he’d been expecting, with no steady income for weeks, months behind on his rent, and the Halal cart man on the corner wise to his pinching. Still, he stared at it dumbstruck for a moment before tearing the slip from its tack, crumbling it into a shaking fist and stumbling into the hall.

They’d probably charge him for the nail hole, the bastards.

He punched a wall instead of punching Thor; he hadn’t seen him, hadn’t bothered showing up, and if he had to guess, Thor probably hadn’t either. He was an idiot, but he had to know that this was the end. Let the court arrest him. Any punishment they had in store could not be worse than what his mind provided.

He didn’t show up four weeks later either, not when the landlord saw his sorry ass out the door, a backpack with his skates and a change of clothes slung over his shoulder; not five weeks later, when a fellow homeless man tried to beat him up for his park bench bed. It was warm enough now for him to lie on the grass in Central Park so he did, wrapped in his trench coat, staring at the stars, and in the morning he’d do tricks and spins on the outdoor rink for nothing but the awed smiles of children.

Six weeks later, hazy-eyed and starving, a pigeon offered him a scrap of bread.

He’d always liked pigeons.

And then he lost track of the days, but he knew that something must be wrong, horribly wrong, when he began to sing, his scarf folded into a basket, songs from his father and ice dances and dear God, he knew he was insane when he started singing Lion King. A few young professionals, locked up in their sharp suits and snappy ties, took pity on him, and dropped change in his scarf if their hands weren’t otherwise occupied with a cell phone or a sandwich or a lover. It was March (or was it April? May?) but the nights were still cold, and usually found him curled in his coat, clutching his skates, under a park bench dreaming of those he’d kill.

Well. At least the police wouldn’t find him here.

He needed his fix, but he had no money, nor the strength to steal. He needed food, but the passerby probably wouldn’t approve of him killing pigeons, choking their life out with his bare hands. He’d starve. He’d die. Gray bags drooped under his eyes, his rib and hip bones poked out of his trench coat, sometimes he felt as pale as the sidewalk as his unruly hair fell below his shoulders.

But this was okay. Better than a life under the command of the court, or any other, he knew. He could live like this. Or die like this. It hardly mattered either way.

Which is why he wasn’t sure he found himself hopping the subway turnstiles one fine morning, getting off at Seventh Avenue; or found himself navigating the dusty brownstones of Chelsea and following the scribbled address on a crumpled bit of parchment to a door he’d never seen, yet looked familiar; or, most surprising of all, how he found the courage to knock.

 

*

 

The rest was a blur.

“Great Odin in Valhalla, Loki,” said a voice that sounded like Thor’s, as he started to fall and strong hands caught him by the shoulders. He heard other voices in the background: “Is everything alright, Thor?” and “Thor, who’s at the door?” and saw double female faces leaning over him - was he on the ground? - and vaguely registered that he was passing out, before promptly doing so.

He wasn’t sure if he was awake when he next heard voices: “My charge, from the Asgard program... a wonderful young man, so much faith in him... rough spot in his life, I know...” He was lying on something soft, and opened his eyes abruptly when a cold cloth was pressed to his head.

The face that hovered above his was blurry but round and kindly, angled around the chin, with dark eyes that hid nothing. She smiled softly as she saw him looking. “Go back to sleep, dear. You’re safe here.”

“Sigyn is a medic,” a deep voice informed him from the corner of the room. The face above him went a deep pink.

“A doctor. In training,” she corrected quietly, but she seemed to know what she was doing, her hands nimble and confident in their movements.

The next time he awoke, it was to a different face, one with much movement around the mouth. “Thor tells about you all the time,” she was saying, as though not to him. “He says you’re awesome, that you’ve got tons of potential, if only you’d see it in yourself. Or something corny like that. And he doesn’t even like corn. I cream it for him sometimes, homemade, and- are you awake?”

He wasn’t.

“You’re lucky,” one woman told him, different from the others; she held her shoulders squarely in the same manner Thor did, radiating confidence, even arrogance, as she looked at him haughtily. “Thor’s going out of his way to take care of you. You don’t deserve it.”

Loki attempted to focus on her, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, his vision focused. “Where am I?”

She blinked, but did not waver. “...In Thor’s apartment.” She looked at him sideways, “You were starving. Dehydrated. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Loki stared down at his hands, quiet. “‘Lucky’ is not the word I would use.”

“Ungrateful, then.” She glared unforgivingly. “If I were you, I’d-”

“Ah, Loki, good to see you awake! And now you have met Sif?”

Thor sauntered in the door, dressed in his usual jacket and scarf, as though he’d just gotten home. He smiled his smile as he always did, as though it were just another Tuesday, as though nothing ill had ever passed between them.

“Loki, this is my childhood friend, the lovely lady Sif. Sif, this is Loki, my friend and charge. I’m so pleased to see you acquainted!”

The two were silent.

“I see. You need more time to get to know each other.” His smile tilted, lopsided, and he gave them each a wink. “I’ll be off!”

“You just need time to get to know her,” Sigyn told Loki later, as she changed his cloth and spoon-fed him chicken broth. “Thor and Sif go way, back, back to Norway, even.” Loki’s blank look must have prompted her to continue, “And Thor as well. Get to know him, I mean. You think you do, don’t you?”

Loki hesitated before deigning to speak. “Fairly, I suppose.”  

“Well. You don’t.” She set aside the empty bowl, “There’s much more to him than meets the eye.”

“He understands you more than you think,” Jane told him the next morning, the first time the two met, and Loki was focusing more on the shape of her jawline than on her words. She was a beautiful girl, a young astrophysicist and wow, did Thor have to have such a perfect life?

 “He’s not perfect at all, far from it,” Jane went on, her hands folded in her lap. “He likes to give off an air of confidence, but he’s been where you are.”

Loki couldn’t help but snort. “Homeless and helpless and considering jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  Jane nodded solemnly.

She told him over the next afternoon about Thor’s childhood, life in Norway, all the things Loki had never bothered to ask. About his behavioral problems in school, how he’d picked fights, and how his parents were of the Norwegian aristocracy. To hide their shame, their shameful child, they’d sent him off to boarding school in America, and effectively exiled him from his family and his country.

Loki knew what that felt like. He just hadn’t known Thor did.

Sif walked in at one point in the afternoon and felt the need to amend everything. She was there, she said, she’d seen it all. Thor was a bastard. The worst kind of bastard. “The kind that beats kids up and steals their lunch money,” she said.

 He hadn’t known it would feel like this to be right.

And somehow he found himself opening up to them as they opened to him. It was probably the cold, the delusion, the hunger, the pain, the last god-only-knows-how-many-weeks catching up to him. But he told them about his dead mother, who he’d seen his father throw down the stairs; how that same man, cold and unremitting, forced him to pursue his skating talent with his eyes on pride and treasure; how after his father’s death, his foster family had done the same, foster family after foster family seeking him for kicks and glory. Olympic bound, they told him, but didn’t want him anymore when he didn’t want that anymore. Since then he’d been living off pickpocketing and skating as an ice performer in children’s plays. A mockable profession, really.

“Nah, I think that’s really cool,” one of the girls chatted excitedly, a bright specimen with fashionable glasses and smiling eyes. The creamed corn girl. “I’d like, totally date an ice dancer. That’s the coolest job ever!”

“That’s because you’re a child, Darcy,” Sif responded blithely, but her lips were curled upwards in a wry grin.

They talked late into the night. About Thor, all that he had put behind him to become strong and admirable as he was now; about Loki, who he believed could do the same. About Sigyn, and her desire to finish medical school, the first doctor in her family; about Sif, and her desire to show the world what she was made of. About Jane and her pursuit of desert physics; about Darcy, and her dysfunctional taser. Sif accepted a boxing challenge from Loki, the first man ever to look her in the eye and mean it.

She still didn’t trust him, but he liked that about her. Sigyn did not pity him, and he liked that about her. Jane and Darcy didn’t care who he was or where he came from, and he liked that about them, too. “Thor has so many friends,” he mused at one point. “But seeing as they’re all lovely ladies like you, I suppose I should not begrudge him. Though I must admit I’m still envious.” This elicited a chuckle, which lit Loki up inside. A chuckle. With him. Amongst friends.

Thor smiled in the doorway.

 

*

 

_In the clearing stands a boxer,_

_And a fighter by his trade_

_And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down_

_Or cut him till he cried out, in his anger and his shame_

_I am leaving, I am leaving_

_But the fighter still remains_

 

*

 

_Two Months Later_

“Morning, Loki,” Thor mumbled through a mouthful of cereal, and waved him over to the kitchen table. “I think I found something for you.”

Still wearing a pair of borrowed flannel pants and an oversized shirt, Loki trudged across the kitchen and peered over his shoulder. “It’s not a sudoku, is it? Please not sudoku. Spawned from hell if I ever-”

“No, it’s a job ad.” Thor had his large index finger pinned under one of the classifieds. “For... an ice skater. A performer.”

Loki squinted at the ad, then at him. “I thought you said we were opening the boxing place.”

  “We are. Still can.” Thor spoke with his mouth full, “Doesn’t mean you can’t do this. If... if you want to.”

Loki eyed the fine print. “ _How to Train Your Dragon_? What’s that?”

Thor shrugged. “I don’t know, I have yet to see it. Darcy said it was worthy, though. One of her favorites.”

“Isn’t that a kids’ movie?” Jane asked from the stove. “And Loki, do you want eggs?”

  “No thanks- a kids’ movie?”

  “A kids’ performance.”

  Loki scowled. “You know how I feel about-”

“This could be different!” Thor clapped a hand on his back. “Think about it, brother. A bit of extra income to start up our boxing ring. And look!” He underlined with his fingernail. “It’s for the part of the dragon.”

“I’m not a-”

“Darcy says the dragon’s story is a marvelous one. One of friendship and love and trust. A misunderstood creature who comes to save the world as they know it.” He made his best puppy eyes, damn him. “Just say you’ll try?”

Loki’s scowl curved to a thin line. “Are you trying to get me to move out?”

“No!” Thor objected, slamming his coffee down to emphasize the point. “I just believe in the value of steady income-”

“And you and Sif need to get a room,” Jane interjected.

Loki spun on her with righteous indignation. “You have no-”

“What she means,” Thor broke in, waving his hands in peace, “Were you and Sif not already considering, ah... sharing quarters?”

Loki’s face went a delicious shade of red that, under his green eyes, looked literally like Christmas in July. “That is none of your concern.”

Thor swallowed the last of his cereal, looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, then back at Loki with a reasonable expression. “Tell you what. If you apply for this job, I will not pry with you nor with Sif.”

Loki’s face heated. “Will we still open the boxing ring?”

  “Of course!”

  “Well.” He took the classified, studied it, and relented with the smallest of smiles. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt...”

 

*

 

“To think,” Jane told him later, as she served him a cup of coffee he hadn’t asked for, “Just a couple months ago you wondered how Thor’s life was so perfect... But here you’ve got yourself a job you love, a best friend, a girlfriend- don’t look at me like that, we all know about you and Sif- and you and Darcy get along fairly well too. If I didn’t know better,” she leaned in with a genuine smile, “I’d say you’ve found yourself a family.”

 

*


End file.
